Comfort Writing

Writing has always been a large part of me. I have discovered at a very early age that writing gives me great joy and satisfaction. Every time I write, I marvel at the way words seem to spew from my fingertips. It is a gift or rather, a passion that I never take for granted.

But at the cost of that gift, there exist this insecurity of never living up to the standards of where you think your favourite writers are at. And ever since becoming a copywriter, that insecurity has bloomed even more.

I get that not everyone will like what you write but to be judged for your writing, it’s unnerving.

There are times after several rejections when I start to wonder; am I even fit to be a writer, maybe writing isn’t my thing after all, maybe I convinced myself that this is a thing that I’m good at.

But I don’t know, this could perhaps be my anxiety talking. Or it’s just normal writer-ly self-doubt.

However, I do know one thing – it’s that words, no matter how they’re sewn together, will always give me comfort.

 

 

The Write-off

In the early hours of the morning, often an hour or two before my alarm goes off, my mind wakes up. It’s not because of some natural biological clock kicking into gear to alert me that a new day is about to begin.

It’s some twisted way of my mind getting back at me for the years of abuse. It’s a disgruntled kick in the gut for the constant questioning and doubt. The vengeful need to heckle at myself for not giving myself a chance.

A chance to concede. A chance to accept. A chance to take a break.

God knows how much I lament any excuse for not being useful. For not being productive. For not continuously seeking to improve myself. Oh, the need to imbibe myself with knowledge.

I wish I was bragging but I’m not. This never ending quest to better myself leaves me in a loop of forever opening doors and never closing them.

I find myself looking for ways to escape the realities of what I thrust myself into. To lose myself in an abyss of apathy and free fall. How does it feel to not care?

But I’m trying. As long as I do, that’s all that matters.

Don’t Look

Could you drive without seeing
If it could all be hidden
Your sight free from all
An absence of light
A drive lit by a million
Pinpricks of thoughts
On a road of
A thousand meanings
That leads to a place
Words cannot describe
A place your eyes
Can never picture
A place your
Heart knows only of

Be

Wake me like how the morning light
Wakes the earliest of birds
Touch my hair like how the breeze
Caresses the still leaves
Kiss me as softly as the plop
Of morning dew on the earth
Hug me like the warm welcome
Of a fire on a chilly day
Hold my hand like the intertwined roots
Of an ancient tree with a story to tell
Be the first light of my every day
Be the last star of my every night

Close(d)

Escape.

You’re constantly looking for ways to escape. You were convinced that exploring new spaces will lend itself a new discovery of some sort. The grass always seems greener on the other side. But what happens when it starts to fade? What happens when you realise that the grass will inevitably still be grass?

It fades all the same.

This is where I insert a quote I came across.

“The only true voyage of discovery, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds, that each of them is.” – Marcel Proust

Closure.

Comfort Me With Your Thoughts

I find that sometimes it’s easiest for me to concentrate when the volume is turned unnecessarily high on my earphones. The louder the type of music, the better. Chaos against chaos. My voice(s) vs. theirs. Feed me your thoughts and I’ll write mine.

More so when I’m writing — whether it’s for work or in my own time. The need to hear another person’s voice telling me their thoughts and ideas, whilst I form my own. Just like a conversation. 

A sad substitution for a meaningful, personal conversation. I crave for the human intellectual connection that reverberates through the air during the quietest parts of the night. Like the quintessential exchange between two people in love — except there needn’t be love or romance. It’s the silent knowledge of how being in the presence of each other’s mind brings comfort.

Sleeplessness

Swathed in warmth
And familiar softness
The air is still
And faintest of light
Permeates
But the incessant drilling
The unstopping slew
Of incorrigible consciousness
Takes hold
A syndrome that incapacitates
But does not seek to defeat
I lay covered
Helpless in the familiar warmth
As it claws at my consciousness
It brews fear, so dark that
Even the night eventually shies away
And all that is left
Is my body in the morning